Donnybrook Fair
by tankobite
Summary: Just an attempt to practice writing with a trio of original characters set in the Mass Effect universe shortly after the destruction of the original SSV Normandy. A few Marines find a unique Pub on the Citadel and get themselves into a bit of trouble.
1. Three Comrades

Author's note: Please bear with me, this is my first attempt at writing in a long time and I'm trying to get the feel for writing characters, dialogue, descriptions, and action. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

I've done some major rewriting of this chapter, so if you already read it, it might help to re-read it. Now that I'm a little more satisfied with this rewrite, I plan to begin actually writing their time at the Pub.

I've taken a few liberties with the structure and slang of the Alliance Marines as the Mass Effect Wiki doesn't really have all that much about ground forces. Unfortunately, my only experience with actual military is as an Army brat and three years of ROTC, so not only is it woefully incomplete, it also represents a completely different service branch. GO ARMY, BEAT NAVY.

I've re-read this once or twice and I think I've caught the most egregious errors in grammar and spelling, but another pair of eyes always helps and I'm not sure how much more I can read it before I tear my hair out and give up.

* * *

"I suppose congratulations are in order Mister Murphy," Hao Xu said, gripping Patrick Murphy firmly on the shoulder, "How does it feel to be a free man?"

Pat Murphy laughed, a grin forming on his handsome face, "Not so bad, Chief Xu. Especially since I'll never have to listen to that god-be-damned racket you call singing again. I thought Chinese was supposed to be a tunal language?"

Dimples formed on Hao's face, despite his attempt to stifle a laugh, "That's tonal, you damnbarbarian. I might have started to miss that big damn smile of yours if it wasn't for how woefully ignorant you are," Hao retorted as he gave his friend a good-natured shove. Behind Patrick, a short, burly man with a large nose and a long scar on his left cheek walked over, "Mikhail, Gunny Ndiaye let you off early?"

"Da-da," Mikhail Rastorguev replied as he strolled up and lifted Patrick off the ground with a big bear-hug that squeezed the breath out of the taller man, "He's a bastard, but even he isn't _bez sardichnye_; he knows that the Mick and I go back to when we were boots together."

Patrick groaned as the diminutive Russian continued to crush him, "Easy Mikhail Nikolayevich! You'll crack a rib and I'm not sure the corpsman'll see me anymore."

Reluctantly, Mikhail put his friend down and looked at the other two marines. The three of them were an unlikely crew. Mikhail was short, broad-chested, muscled, and at best could be described as "unconventionally handsome," but only if that person felt particularly charitable. The wicked scar that stretched from his left ear, across the check to his upper lip gave him a distinctly sinister appearance which helped to scare off the few ladies he dared approach.

"You know, today is truly a sad day," Mikhail said sorrowfully, "I always knew that eventually Xu would leave us and end up an N7 or officer...but I'd thought that at least Patrick and I would end up lifers together, living off a fat government pension on some little Asari moon..."

Patrick and Hao stood silently, in stark contrast to their dour little comrade. Both men towered over Mikhail and were of a far less sullen demeanor. Physically, Patrick was a runner by nature-slim, but four years in the Alliance Marine Corps had bulked him up to a respectable level and he could have been a model for the idea marine—tall, dark-haired, handsome, and fit. Patrick cut a dashing figure and was the darling of females of almost any species; a handsome face, natural swagger, and confidence combined with his piercing blue eyes and a charming smile easily overcame most resistance.

Hao was also a good looking man: tall, dark eyed, and thoughtful; he lacked the confidence and charisma that Patrick had. Instead, Hao fit the mold of a dutiful Asian son: hard working, respectful, and brilliant. In his late twenties, he was the eldest and as the ranking marine he took his responsibility seriously while on duty, but he was more than willing to allow Patrick's natural _joie de vivre_ guide them on the shore. But today Patrick had turn in his kit, been formally sworn into the reserves, and was now officially a civilian marking the end of an era for the three comrades.

Hao put his hand on Mikhail's shoulder, "Hey now, Barbarian, there's no need to talk like that. I'm not going anywhere yet, and you talk about Patrick like he's dead and buried."

Patrick nodded, "Right, this kind of talk could be considered defeatist," flashing a big grin, he added, "Weren't your people known on Earth for shooting traitors to the motherland?"

"Were we?" Mikhail's brows furrowed, "I can't imagine anyone willingly fighting for the old nation-state. Lyubertsy was a hell hole..."

"It's beside the point, Misha! Don't think of this as the end, but the beginning of a new adventure! We've got debauchery to plan!"

Mikhail shook Hao's hand off his shoulder, "So there is a plan? I've been given liberty by Gunny Ndiaye until the Budapest ships back out again…then it's back to the Captain's Mast and NJP for me."

"I guess we'd better make the most of the next three days, hadn't we?" Patrick replied, "Heaven knows you'd be more than welcome to jump ship and stick around with me Misha.

"But I haven't gotten a clue; this is my first time actually aboard the Citadel myself," turning, he asked, "Hao, didn't you dock here a few times back when you served on the _Wanjialing_?"

"Yes, but that was years ago," seeing the glum expressions appear on the other's faces, Hao smiled and added, "Fear naught! I've got a cousin in C-Sec and I messaged him via extranet before we docked—he gave me the directions to a place that sounds perfect for Patrick Murphy's last hurrah."

"Ha!" Mikhail barked out a laugh, "Always planning ahead! I see you've earned those stripes of yours."

This caused Patrick to laugh, "Misha, you knew when you signed up with this outfit that Hao was the brains behind it. You think the Alliance made him a Service Chief because he's 'oh-so-handsome'? If that were the case, I'd be a Fleet Admiral by now."

"Patrick's right, Mikhail," Hao said, "There are a few other requirements besides good looks—modesty, to start with," saying this, Hao had to quickly jump back, narrowly avoiding an elbow strike to his stomach, "Ai-ya!"

"Civilian now, remember? I can hit you and it doesn't count as striking a superior anymore."

Hao seemed poised to attempt a counterattack, but Mikhail interrupted, "Enough of that! I've been locked aboard ship for the past three liberties and I don't want to waste any of my precious freedom. If you won't lead on; _Za mnoi_!"

Hao raised his hands, palms up, "Stand fast, Mikhail; I'll get us there. Get changed into your shore going clothes and I'll meet the two of you at the cab point, dong ma?"

"Fine by me," Patrick clapped his hands together and rubbed them, "I'm interested in seeing what passes for my perfect send off!"

* * *

"So, three marines walk into a bar? Stop, I think I've heard this one before guys," said Patrick.

"No, it's two marines and a sorry pog who decided the Corps wasn't good enough from him. Or it will be if Sergeant-Shoes ever finds the bar," Mikhail replied, using the archaic rank equivalent.

Hao gave his shorter friend a not-so- gentle shove, "_Bizui_! We're almost there, Barbarian! Do you have any idea how hard navigating around the wards has gotten since the Geth attack? Last time I had liberty here, Chora's Den or the Flux was the place to be! Now the damnbitch keepers have turned that ward into a residential zone and the Flux went belly-under when Dark Star opened."

"The expression is belly-up," Patrick added with a smirk, "For a guy who was brought up speaking two languages, you somehow manage to mangle the most widely spoken one half the time."

"First off," Hao replied with mock indignation, "My father insisted that in addition to English I speak both Beijing and Sichuanese Mandarin, but don't let the name fool you-they're basically two different languages at this point. And unlike Mikhail here," he said gesturing to the Russian, "he never let me use a translator, so when you hear me speak English-I'm actually speaking English."

Mikhail gave a toothy smile at this, showing off a mirrored set of golden incisors, "Da, that's true. The school I attended was a little short staffed in the faculty of foreign languages. And the faculty of math. And Science." He rubbed his chin, "Come to think of it, it wasn't much of a school at all."

"Secondly," Hao said, making a point to ignore Mikhail, "Several billion of us native Mandarin speakers were quite unhappy with the decision to make English the official-"

Patrick cut him off, "English is the most widely spoken language back Earthside,"

Hao muttered, "Most widely spoken second language maybe."

"Point is, it was the one most people knew," Patrick continued, "And if your nation-state had wanted more say in the Alliance, they should have done more in space exploration or funded it more, instead of letting us foreign-devils reap all the benefits."

Hao sighed, "Why do the leaders of China always have to shut down our exploration projects. First it was the Ming and their stupid treasure fleets, then it was those damn-fool communists. Lions led by jackasses..."

"I thought it was 'lions led by donkeys.' Don't tell me you can't get that saying right either?" Patrick said.

"Isn't that what he just said?" Mikhail asked, confused.

"I mean it in both senses of the word; smart ass," Hao replied dryly.

The three companions continued their ribbing down the corridors of the Citadel laughing, occasionally cursing, and generally enjoying themselves. Hao quietly dropped out of the conversation as he concentrated on finding the bar. Coming to yet another intersection he paused, scratched his head, and scanned the brightly colored signs which covered the entrances. Truth be told, he was pretty sure he was lost. Hitting the bars for Murphy's first day of civilian life had seemed like a great idea, but they had been walking the corridors for slightly over an hour and this intersection seemed discouragingly familiar.

"Say, Misha," Patrick said, noticing Hao's halt, "I think you might be onto something about Hao pushing for OCS."

"Eh? Why?"

"Because he's gotten us lost. Second lieutenant with a map and all that," Patrick said, causing Mikhail to guffaw,

"Very funny," Hao said, "Give me a minute; I'm positive it should be somewhere around here."

Frustrated, he tapped a quick command on his omni-tool which brought up the meager directions that Yuming had sent him. He carefully re-read them and concluded that this had to be the right spot; but where was it? Hao wondered if he should break down and tell Patrick and Mikhail the name of the bar so he could get two more sets of eyes searching. He had planned to keep it a surprise, but he was getting desperate.

Once more, he scanned the neon signs in a fruitless attempt to will the bar to appear. Just as he was about to give up, he noticed that a darkened space between a small Hanar Curio shop and a Sushi-Ramen stand. He had seen the dark spot before, but had written it off as closed. But as he looked at it, a small group of Quarians approach the door and entered. Confused, Hao searched the storefront for a sign, before realizing that above the door there was a sign. It just happened to be a hand painted sign with two paltry lights which were woefully inadequate at drawing attention to it.

Now knowing where to look, he read the sign and smiled. On a forest green background in ornate golden letters stood the words: "Donnybrook Fair—Traditional Human Public House, Compleat with fine Ales, Porters, and Spirits (Earthen and Intersteller)."

Throwing his arms around his two companions he announced, "Brothers, we have arrived!"

* * *

bez sardichnye- Without a heart

The abundance of names Mikhail is called is not a continuity error, Russians traditionally have a given name, surname and patronymic, making his name Mikhail Nikolayevich Rastorguev; and Misha is the diminutive of Mikhail, commonly used among close friends

NJP is an acronym for Non-Judicial Punishment, which covers any sort of punishment short of a court martial. The Captain's Mast is just a naval term for it. You may have heard the Army term "Article 15". Basically the same thing

Za mnoi!-Follow me!

Dong Ma—Got it? Understand?

POG: Person other than grunt, anyone not a combat arms branch—especially REMFs (Rear Echelon Mother…)

Bizui: Shut it!

OCS: Officer Candidate School


	2. Potent Potables

_"Now learned men who use the pen,_  
_Have written the praises high_  
_Of the rare poitin from Ireland's green,_  
_Distilled from wheat and rye._  
_Away with your pills, it'll cure all ills,_  
_Be yeh Pagan, Christian or Jew,_  
_So take off your coat and grease your throat_  
_With a bucket of the Mountain Dew."_

Poitín: From the Gaelic "pota" for small pot. A famous Irish spirit that is basically moonshine. Popularized in song and story as "Mountain Dew." Generally between 60%-95% alcohol. Has been known to kill if made improperly.

* * *

Patrick stood dumbfounded for a moment, finally forcing out, "My perfect send-off is a Sushi-Ramen stand?" with as little disappointment as he could muster.

"You know, sushi can't be so bad," Mikhail said with a weak smile, "In fact, back on Earth it was pretty much a delicacy; we could never afford it. We ate plenty of Ramen though. Can't believe it's become one of the icons of Earth cuisine."

Hao slapped Patrick on the back, "No! Next to it; the bar!"

Patrick quickly read the sign with a smile a kilometer wide, "Not a bar, you wonderful devil! By damn, a pub!"

"But can we still try the Sushi?" Mikhail asked plaintively.

"No chance in hell!" Patrick replied, causing Mikhail to frown a little, "If this place is half as authentic as the sign is, we should be able to get some bonafide Pub Grub."

"Pub Grub?" Mikhail asked quizzically, searching his omni-tool when his translator failed him.

"Da-da!" Patrick said, grabbing Mikhail by the arm and pulling him towards the entrance, "You'll see! Bangers and mash! A ploughman's plate! Maybe even an Irish breakfast! I haven't had any good rashers with Coleman's or Branston's since..." he trailed off for a moment, "Since I can't even remember!"

Poor Mikhail let Patrick drag him along and gave up any hope of finding any meaning on the extra-net to what the excited Patrick babbled on about. Instead, he shot a look of confusion back at Hao, who simply shrugged and followed the two of them to the entrance of the "Pub".

Hao's smug contentment at the excitement he had sparked in Patrick quickly turned to horror as he watched Patrick's excitement get the better of him. Time slowed down as Patrick ran into a short Volus that was approaching the doorway from the Sushi-Ramen stand. Predictably, Patrick's greater mass and momentum sent the pudgy little alien head over heels. Under most circumstances, it would have been quite a comical sight. However today, this Volus was accompanied by an extremely large, even by his own race's standard, Elcor.

"Indignantly: Watch where you are going, human," said the Elcor. "Rebukingly: Just because you kind has ascended to such a place of prominence in the galaxy so quickly does not give you the right to barge through these corridors heedless of others."

Meanwhile, the poor Volus was rolling around on the floor, gasping and swearing in his own language, unable to gain enough leverage to right himself. Mikhail quickly bent down to help the unfortunate alien; he had always had an affinity for the short, clumsy aliens.

"There we are, brother," Mikhail said, lifting the alien up, "The universe is an unforgiving place for the short, _nyet_?"

To his surprise, the Volus shrugged him off and moved behind his Elcor companion, who had continued to berate Patrick for his clumsiness, drawing himself higher upon his hind legs, giving him a remarkably gorilla-like appearance.

"Keep your hands off me, Earth-clan," said the Volus, respirator gasping as he spoke, "Do you have any idea how valuable this environmental suit is?"

Pointing a three fingered hand at Patrick, he continued, "If I find you've damaged it, I'll take you and your gibbering friend to court for all you are worth!"

"Gibbering?" Mikhail asked puzzled, "Does he mean me?"

"Irritatedly: Why doesn't your companion speak a more prominent Earth language?" Asked the Elcor, "Sternly: You humans should have unified more before you barged onto the galactic stage. Sarcastically: I cannot decide which is more annoying-working with Batarians when they don't update their translation databases or humans who force you to download seventeen different programs to understand them."

"Easy there, big fellah," Patrick said, putting on an apologetic smile, "My friend here was just offering his apologies to your companion for my clumsiness and wishing a blessing of his people upon you two."

"What? 'A blessing of my people'?"

"Slow down, Mikhail! Let me finish translating your wish for them to have a thousand years of good health, fruitful and joyous marriages, and success in all of their business endeavors," Patrick continued, "And he is heartily sorry that our haste has inconvenienced you and your friend. To make it up to you, he'd like to buy you both a round once we enter the establishment."

"You dirty _suka_!" Mikhail whispered to Patrick, "And this is pretty lame, even for you."

"Puzzled: He was not the one who thoughtlessly ran into Mal Inkee," The Elcor said, gesturing to the Volus.

"Yes, but he feels terrible because he was the cause of my distraction and among his people, he is as much responsible as I am," Patrick said.

"_Blin_...not this again," Mikhail muttered, earning him an elbow to the side from Patrick.

"Contemplatively: I'm not sure, Mal Inkee's suit is of an exceptionally fine quality and you may have damaged it," The Elcor said, "Accusingly: And even if he feels responsible, among my people a person is responsible for their own actions."

"He'll buy the first round of drinks, I'll buy the second, and I suppose I could part with one or two of these fine cigars I've brought all the way from Earth," Patrick said, bringing out a small box of cigars from a coat pocket, "Authentic Cubano cigars, straight from Havana."

At this, the Elcor's eyes lit up, a display of interest even a human could recognize, but before he could reply the Volus, Mal Inkee interjected, "That's hardly an offer I can take seriously, Earth-clan. Two drinks? And I can't even smoke."

"Desirously: Mal, I believe this human when he says it was an accident," the Elcor said, eyes still on Patrick's tobacco box, "With seriousness: I think we should accept their offer."

"But!"

"With finality: and I can take your cigar, since you would be unable to enjoy it," The Elcor said, cutting off his companion's complaint, "With courtesy: after you, humans."

Hao breathed a sigh of relief: Patrick's little bribery had gotten him out of a potentially serious mess, and this time it was just him and Mikhail paying for drinks. He paused and watched the odd group enter the pub, trying to remember the last time the three of them had been on the shore together.

_Lao tyen yeh_, he thought, _We were scheduled for leave right before the Geth had hit Eden Prime, and after that'd we were out patrolling the border colonies. Then there's Mikhail's little contraband fiasco after the battle of the Citadel that got him flung onto the Captain's Mast. That would make it the time after we caught that pirate gang...almost two years ago. Now that Patrick's gone, maybe Mikhail'll settle down and stay out of trouble._

Shaking himself out of his revery, he opened the door and went inside. Immediately he heard a lively tune being played on a fiddle, but he saw nothing. He blinked while his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he took a few cautious steps forward. Donnybrook Fair was deceptively spacious inside. It looked as if it had taken the storefront space from the Sushi-Ramen stand and combined it to make a single large room filled with tables and booths surrounding a stage where an older man with a violin sawed away vigorously.

Something about the way the man stood seemed odd to Hao and it took him a moment to realize that one leg was visibly thinner than the other and unnaturally shaped. It was an old, unrealistic looking prosthetic that went up all the way to the man's thigh. Everywhere Hao looked, he saw the Pub's dedication to rustic asceticism. The lighting was the same barely adequate style that had failed to catch Hao's attention outside-mixed with a few lamps which curled from the ceiling over the corner booths. The walls were sparsely decorated with ancient posters of a mustached man fighting an array of animals that Hao couldn't recognize for control of a glass of dark, dark beer. Behind the stage where the man was performing a tri-color flag was draped from a second level where a square section of the ceiling had been cut out so the customers upstairs could get a view of the stage.

Hao searched for his friends and their new acquaintances to no avail. After a few attempts, he finally caught the attention of an overworked Asari who irritatedly pointed him to a pair of elevators on the left hand side of the room and to a staircase opposite them. Tonight, the lower level was full and Hao didn't feel liking fighting his way over to the stairs, so he walked over to the elevators and stepped into the one marked "Public."

Quickly, he came to regret this decision. He wasn't sure if there was some sort of code on the Citadel which required all elevators to move at a snail's pace, but this elevator was no exception, even though it was only heading up a single floor. Roughly half an eternity later, the doors of the elevator finally opened and Hao jumped out, giving a small prayer of thanks and promising to take the stairs in the future.

The upstairs was similarly designed to the downstairs, with fewer booths and a few flags displayed prominently on the wall in addition to the beer posters that adorned the walls. Most of the tables circled the gap looking down on the stage, with the few booths that were there sitting in the corners of the room. Across the gap, Hao finally spied Patrick, Mikhail, and their alien companions standing at long bar stretching from one corner to the stairs. Hao headed over to the bar, carefully navigating through the maze of tables, laughing as he saw the poor Volus struggling to climb onto a barstool until Mikhail took pity and picked him up and sat him down on the stool. This time, the Volus seemed a little less irritated and Hao thought he heard the Volus thank Mikhail, but he wasn't sure if that was wishful thinking on his part.

When Hao arrived at the bar, four drinks had arrived and Patrick was passing them over to the Elcor, along with the promised cigars. The Elcor promptly thanked Patrick and paid the human no more mind as he turned to inspect his prizes, bringing the whole situation to a peaceful conclusion.

"All's well that ends well, eh Misha?"

"They bought four of the most expensive drinks on the menu and took two of those cigars you've been bragging about since before the Geth hit Eden Prime," Mikhail replied dryly, "That's a pretty far cry from ending well."

"As you so often say: _Nichevo_!" Patrick replied cheerfully, "The cigars were for a special occasion and I think not getting pounded on by a five-hundred kilo Elcor counts. And what'll I do with the extra credits? Might as well spend it making new friends.

"But enough of that, Hao's here, let's pick up some drinks and see if we can grab a table. This place is packed tonight."

"According to my cousin," Hao said, sharing a menu with Mikhail, "It usually is. This place is popular enough among the humans living in this ward, but has also made some serious onroads with the alien community."

"Inroads."

"Shut it, _bái chi_."

"I was born on Earth, but I can't recognize anything," Mikhail said after a few moments, "Murph, can you recommend anything?"

"It's hard to go wrong with a classic stout like Guinness."

Hao spoke up, "I was hoping for something a little stronger to start off-besides, I heard it was a bad idea to start with beer before spirits."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, "Really Hao? You're usually the one pushing for restraint and responsibility."

"There's a time for restraint and a time for excitability, Murph," Hao said, "Tonight is one of the latter types. How about we start with a couple shots of vodka, then move onto your stouts?"

Mikhail shook his head vigorously and made a face, "We only drank vodka back home because it was cheap, strong, and easy to get our hands on. No one in their right minds drinks vodka because they enjoy it."

"Fair enough. I didn't plan on remembering tonight, but while it goes down, I'd like to enjoy the taste," Patrick said, then signaling to the man of about Hao's age working at the other end of the bar, "Hey buddy, can you help us out down here?"

Slowly the barman put down the glass he'd been cleaning and walked over to Patrick, stopping briefly to direct an Asari to finish cleaning up the glasses. "Yes?"

"We're celebrating tonight; what can you recommend for a strong start?" Patrick asked.

"Depends on what you're celebrating," the barman said with a light accent, "We've got plenty of Scotch and Irish Whiskeys. There's some fine Armagnac brandy from Bas-Armagnac that I'd recommend."

Mikhail spoke up, "What do you have that's strong and hard?"

"Almost everything," the barman said flatly, "Let me know the occasion and I can give you some more specific options."

"Our friend's celebrating the recent termination of his employment," Hao said, thumbing over at Patrick.

The barman scratched his whiskers for a moment, "If that's the case, we've got some Ryncol we've made fit for human consumption. We also carry an Asari doubled brandy 'Matriarch's Make'; drinks as smooth as a regular brandy with double the alcohol.

"But," he said after a moment, "I take it you all are Alliance Navy?"

"Hardly," Hao said, "Marines."

"Nobody's perfect, but we've got something even you Jarheads should appreciate. The boss, Monsieur Kelly's been experimenting with some scientific distilling techniques...we've got a..." the bartender paused for a moment, "_Merde_, I think he called it a _pocheen_?"

At this, Patrick snapped to attention, "Do you mean _poitín_?"

The barman smiled, "Yes, thank you, that was it. It's a locally made _poitín_ that M. Kelly distills in the back and likes to keeps off the menu. It's quite legal, but M. Kelly's a bit of a nostalgic-romantic."

"That sounds perfect," Patrick said, "We'll take three, followed by three pints of Guinness."

"Stand fast,_ mon ami_," the barman said, "There's a few rules that come with the poitín and I'll have to ask you a few questions.

"First, are you now, or have you ever been members of the Irish Republican Army?"

Mikhail raised his eyebrows, "The what?"

"Just say no," the barman said, anticipating more trouble from Mikhail he added, "The answer to all the questions is no."

"Oh, ok. No."

"Second," the barman continued, "Are you now, or have you ever been members of the Ulster Volunteer Force?"

The three marines all shook their heads, as the barman rattled off a number of questions relating to various historical Irish political situations. Finally, the barman came to the last question:

"Do you have a strong desire to remain sober for the night?" The barman waited for the expected negative response, "All right, then by the authority given to me by Ray Kelly Esquire, you've passed the test. The only rules we have is that you'll take a seat away from the balcony and if you need to go downstairs, you'll take the elevator. We've had trouble with people injuring themselves on the way down and the elevator eliminates most of the risk.

"The first drink of poitín is mandatory and on the house, but after that you're welcome to switch to something else. You can keep the bottle with M. Kelly's regards and he thanks you for your service to the Alliance," the barman added seriously, "I'd recommend moving off the _poitín_ after the first drink. It hits hard and fast. Try not to cause any trouble; Semper Fidelis."

With that, he went over to the Asari cleaning glasses and pointed back at the three friends. She nodded and headed down the stairs, while the barman grabbed two shot glasses and a scotch glass. He places the shot glasses in front of Hao and Mikhail and put the scotch glass in front of Patrick. After a moment, the Asari returned with a label-less bottle of a clear liquid and carefully poured it into each of their glasses, filling them to the brim.

Mikhail and Hao looked to Patrick, who sniffed at his glass, but smelled nothing. The barman stood watching, arms crossed and silent. After a moment's hesitation, Patrick lifted the glass to his lips and began to drink the spirit in one quick go. The liquid had a strong flavor and burned his throat as it went down. Patrick shuddered and kept drinking, trying to finish the potent brew as quickly as possible. After an agonizing few seconds, Patrick finally finished his glass, flipped it over, and flashed a smile at his two friends; especially proud at himself for not coughing or sputtering.

Seeing his example Mikhail took a deep breath, exhaled, and downed the shot. Immediately afterwords, he brought his arm up and exhaled again into his sleeve. With a little trepidation, Hao followed suit and tossed back his shot. Unlike Mikhail and Patrick however, he wasn't prepared for the harshness of the drink.

"_Tzao-gao_!" Hao exclaimed between coughs, "Back in school, I used rocket fuel that was weaker than this stuff."

"I want another," Mikhail said, "But I want a glass like his," pointing at Patrick's empty glass.

"All right, but take it easy," the bartender cautioned, "This stuff will knock you down if you aren't careful."

He was about to say something else, when his omni-tool beeped, "_Oui, mon pére_?"

"Augie, I need you down here with yer guitar," the voice on the other end said,"And bring Kalt and 'er flute. I need some accompaniment on this next set."

'Augie' sighed, "It's kind of busy up here _pére_. Can't you manage with Kaltrienia?"

"No, I need ya both. Aleia can handle the bar while yer with me. Get down here as quickly as you can. Don't make an auld man beg."

"Fine," 'Augie' relented, "We'll be down in a moment," Motioning to the Asari, "Aleia, find these guys a table before they fall over-the _chinois_ looks a little dizzy."

The Asari moved gracefully toward them, grabbing the bottle of potín and taking Hao by the elbow she led them towards an empty table. Hao was a little mortified at the implication that he needed a steadying hand after just one drink, but the look of jealousy on Mikhail's face and the warmth of the blue skinned alien's touch was enough to keep him quiet. He smiled at the scowling Mikhai and pulled himself a little closer to the beautiful Asari.

Most of the tables were occupied, but Aleia found an empty table near the back corner of the room. The table was in a prime location to see the stage while not being directly next to the hole, thus not violating one of 'Augie' the bartender's rules. Patrick was a little surprised at its availability, until he noticed the occupants on either side of it. To the table's left, in the corner was a booth that seated seven or eight Quarians who crowded around it, necessitating a few extra stools pulled up. On the table's right was a group of five Turians who were drinking quietly, casting few sullen looks at the Quarians who had dared seat themselves so nearby.

As they arrived at the table, Patrick noticed a few disapproving glances from the Turians; the Quarians seemed to be a little wary at their approach. But Patrick paid it little mind as he was already starting to feel a little giddy from the _poitín_. He got the feeling that after a few more drinks, it wouldn't matter if he was sitting between a gaggle of Geth and a gang of Batarians. As Aleia left, he reminded her about the pints of Guinness, while Mikhail repeated his request for a larger glass. Patrick hoped she'd only bring one; he wasn't sure if he could handle another big serving of the potent potable.

* * *

Blin-A Russian crepe-like pancake which rhymes with the Russian word for a lady of ill-repute. Used as a soft expletive.

Lao tyen yeh-Jesus or God!

Nichevo- Nothing

bái chi-retard

Tzao-gao-Damn it!

I've gone through this twice, but unfortunately I"m uploading it from my Ipad and and I copied and pasted the text. I wanted to get this up before I got on the train and went back into radio silence. I've started working on the final part of this trilogy. I hope this chapter isn't too much filler...but it became longer than I expected and I still hadn't gotten to the action yet.


	3. The Affray

Affray: A public order offense in English common law consisting of the fighting of two or more persons in a public place to the terror of the ordinary people.

* * *

There are lots of places to booze it up on the Citadel. Most are seedy little joints with nothing remarkable but the teeming masses which frequent them. Before the Geth attacked, "Chora's Den" was a hotbed for drunken lewdness: cheap drinks and table dancing Asari every night. "Chora's Den" never recovered from its owner's summary execution by a Spectre and his crew. For the more discerning (and wealthier) patrons in the upper Wards there was "Flux" and sundry other areas frequented by the movers and shakers of the galaxy.

One bar started up with little fanfare back in 2180. The owner was an odd human who had opened this novelty bar in a mixed species ward. When it first opened its doors most of the ward's residents had not known what to make of it; but the congenial host, warm atmosphere, and reasonable prices had made the spot a popular dive. It quickly became known that Ray Kelly didn't care what whether you were human or alien; as long as "Donnybrook Fair" had customers he was happy.

Hao had heard plenty of stories about Kelly from his cousin; where Kelly came from or how he earned enough money to open a pub on the citadel, no one was quite sure, but after the corridor surrounding Donnybrook Fair became the only neighborhood in that ward not to suffer from heavy looting he had become something of a local legend. Some said he was an ex-alliance soldier on a pension from the First Contact War. Turians were quick to point out a lack of bias against their species and suggested that he must have lost his leg fighting Batarian pirates. A few humans even wishfully suggested that one-legged Irishman had been an early washout for the Spectres. Most other races dismissed this out of hand, yet no one could offer up any truly plausible explanation. The few who worked up enough courage to ask Kelly always got the same response: he scratched his goatee thoughtfully for a moment and replied, "Aye, that sounds about right," refusing to elaborate anymore.

So Donnybrook Fair's fame grew along with its customer base and the pub slowly expanded to an upper level and a few private rooms for those lucky enough to gleam of their existence. Tonight Ray Kelly was enjoying the fruits of his labor and taking a break from actively managing the pub to entertain his guests. In that upper level three humans: Hao, Mikhaihl and Patrick found themselves wedged between Turians and Quarians. The five Turians sat around a circular table dressed in what passed for casual wear among their people: subdued colors, baggy vests, and crest-fitting hats. A group of seven or eight Quarians sat in the corner in various colored suits; some bright and cheerful, others dark and brooding. The three humans found themselves subtly admiring the sleek and tight-fighting suits of the Quarian ladies. Two of the girls stuck out in particular: the one nearest them had a dark, forest-green hood and matching suit color with a dark red trimming of small rectangles throughout. The other one was clothed in slick black with grey highlights and white lines bordering the hood. In stark contrast to the grey and black; her opaque mask was a faded, dark orchid color. Whatever the Quarian women hid behind their masks, it seemed that Quarian fashion had no qualms emphasizing their feminine qualities to the galaxy.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen! And the rest of you ragged lot!" A voice boomed clearly over the speakers; despite it's rustic appearance, Donnybrook Fair had not skimped on the audio set up. "That was an old Irish wedding waltz called 'Tabhair Dom do Lámh.' For those of you that don't speak Irish Gaelic, it roughly translates to 'Give Me Your Wages.' Ow! Easy there Kalt! Fine, it's 'Give Me Your Hand.' Though God knows my way is far more accurate."

Most of the crowd responded warmly to Ray Kelly's banter; Mikhail and Patrick in particular guffawed loudly, which drew irritated glares from the Turians next to them. Patrick might have paid more attention to the grimacing aliens, if the hats didn't have hanging bands of cloth which reminded him of a nun's wimple. _To be fair_, he mused, _Those holy sisters at St. Xavier's were a fearsome set of battle-axes. Maybe I should be more afraid._

He turned to the Quarians, who had relaxed significantly since the arrival three humans had created a buffer between them and the Turians. _They're probably just grateful we don't seem to give a damn about them. Thank The Lord we've got our own home. What if the Turians hadn't been reigned in by the Council back in the day? Would we be galactic outcasts?_

He went back to watching down below, as the man on the stage continued, "I'd like you to give another hand to my accompaniment: Kaltrienia T'Arli on the Thessian Flute and on the guitar, my son-son-law Augusté-Napoleon Coignent! You all know he's been helping the pub get back on her feet since the little ruckus we had a few months back. I'm a bit parched, so we'll be taking a short break, folks and we'll be back after I've banished this perishing thirst!"

Patrick turned back from watching the stage and placed his hand on Hao's shoulder, "You wonderful devil; this place is fantastic. In case I forget to say it at the end of the night-thanks a million."

A broad smile disappeared and Patrick's voice took on a serious tone, "I mean it Hao. I know you don't think I take things seriously enough, but I'm grateful for you and Misha," he put down what was left of his smoldering cigar, pushed away their half-full mugs of Guinness, and grabbed the bottle of poitín, "You two are the best mates a guy could ask for and it's been an honor serving in your Fireteam, Hao.

"And here's to you," Patrick said, pouring each of them a drink, "Misha, you kept me on my feet on the ruck marches back at boot camp and saved my neck more times than I can count. Slaínte boys!"

"Slaínte!" Hao and Mikhail replied in unison, raising their glasses. Hao choked on the harsh spirit again and downed his Guinness.

Mikhail laughed a deep, full belly laugh, "Trouble, _brat_?"

"Don't feel pressured that you have to keep up with the real men," Patrick chirped, "We can have the waitress bring some cola or tea, if you can't handle it."

"_Chi bao le cheng de_," Hao muttered, suddenly feeling lighter, "There's no honor in being a drunkard."

"There's no shame in being one at a bar either," With a wink and smile Patrick waved down a human waitress, "Hey miss! How about another round of drinks-Porter this time, I think."

An attractive, Asian woman in her early twenties approached Patrick. She wore a long, yellow skirt which fanned out widely around her legs. The full skirt stretched from just below her chest to her feet and a tightly-wrapped, white blouse was tucked into it-with a few buttons left open at the top to tease the male customers.

After he reiterated the drink order, Patrick leaned in conspiratorially, "Do you know if the band takes requests?"

"Kelly-_Seonbae_," The barmaid said, emphasizing the honorific,"Plays whatever comes to mind."

"Aye, but surely he wouldn't mind humoring an old veteran on his day of release?" Patrick said, bringing up his omni-tool and typing something quickly, "What's your name dear?"

"Bae Cho-Hee," She said, eying Patrick with suspicion until a quick beep and flashing light drew her attention to her own omni-tool. Eyes widening, she exclaimed, "Ay...he's always had a soft spot you Alliance types."

"That's a dear. I've always been partial to 'The Waxies' Dargle' and it would be amazing to hear some more of these old sing-a-longs!"

"Is there anything else I can get you, _Oppa_?" Cho-Hee said, placing a hand on Patrick's forearm.

"Not at the moment, _Mei-Mei_," Patrick said patting her hand with his own, "But if I think of anything, I'll let you know."

The barmaid wrinkled her small nose for a moment, but the smile quickly returned. She turned to leave, giving another glance back at them; Patrick happily saw that Mikhail had been paying too much attention to the band downstairs to notice the flirting. The scarred Russian was a hopeless romantic, though he'd never admit it, and the lack off attention he received cut him deeper than he thought he let on.

"Smooth going," Hao said, interrupting Patrick's thoughts,"I think you blew it with her."

"Hmm?" Talk of women immediately brought Mikhail back into the conversation, "What happened? Blew what?"

"Yeah, what happened?" Patrick asked indignantly.

"The pretty Asian girl," Hao patiently explained, "You called her '_mei-mei_,'"

"So? I thought you'd be pleased that I tried to be culturally sensitive," Patrick said, poking a finger into Hao's shoulder, "You said that the Asian girls liked it when you put a little effort into learning the language."

Hao sighed and looked away from the irritated Patrick to Mikhail, who was sitting rapt attention, desperate to learn anything he could about the female of the species.

"Yes and that's true," Hao continued, "But her language is Hangul, not Mandarin. You spoke to her in the wrong language."

"Oh," Patrick said, crestfallen.

"Yeah, 'oh.' Do we Asians all look alike to you _yang guizi_?"

"Actually," Mikhail interjected, "You mean she would be speaking Hangungmal. Hangul is the written language."

Patrick stopped mid-retort and turned to Mikhail, "Did you just correct 'the Professor'?"

"_Qu nide!_" Hao said angrily, " I thought you said you were going to cut it out with that 'professor' crap."

"You shouldn't have told us you dropped out of the Illyrian Technical Institute to join up," Patrick replied evenly, "Not our fault you gave us the ammunition for that one.

"But Misha made an excellent point. You've got to give the boy credit. He may not look it, but there's a thinker under that scarred and calloused exterior."

Mikhail smiled, "Just because I never graduated secondary school doesn't mean I'm a fool," seeing that Hao's arms were still folded, he added, "_Kon' o chetyryokh nogakh, da i tot spotykaetsya_. Don't take it so hard, Chief; I know you're an educated man."

Hao conceded the point and uncrossed his arms, "Mikhail, don't let anyone tell you you're a fool," he turned to Patrick," But it isn't that...I just don't appreciate it when you try to use my education as the back of a joke."

"Hao," Patrick began to correct Hao's mistake, but thought better of it, the drink was making Hao a lot more antagonistic than usual,"My point is Hao, that it's the thought that counts."

"It's damned condescending," Hao glared, "You Westerners haven't changed in four hundred years."

Forgetting about his concern for Mikhail's feelings, Patrick threw back, "If that's the case, then who just sent me an apartment number and digits? It's all about the effort."

Before the situation could spiral farther out of control Mikhail decided to intervene and he blurted out the first thing that came to his alcohol-addled mind, "Be friends you foolish bastards. There's an easy enough way to settle this argument.

"Girl!" Mikhail said to one of the Quarian females, "Yes, you with the green hood. I've got a question-"

"It's a _Realk_," the Quarian said, crossing her arms and turning to Mikhail, "And I have a name and isn't 'girl'."

Confused, Mikhail tilted his head, "Eh? What?" After a moment, he remembered something Patrick had said about Russian manners, "Ah, _nyet, nyet_. That wasn't what I meant. Where I come from, 'girl' is just how we get attention of a woman we don't know. I didn't mean anything by it."

The Quarian girl seemed placated by Mikhail's explanation, but one of her friends spoke up, "Forget it Pasha; he's just another drunk alien _bosh'tet_ mocking us."

Mikhail replied spoke up, flicking his neck twice with his middle finger, "Yeah, drunk. But tomorrow I'll be sober. You're ugly. _Blin_, that isn't right. Patrick, how did that one go?"

Patrick winced and looked over at Hao, seeing his friend visibly stiffen, both men expecting the Quarians to take umbrage at Mikhail's butchering of the famous saying, "It's 'I may be drunk, but you're ugly. Tomorrow I'll be sober.'"

Surprisingly, the Quarian girl Mikhail had singled out began to laugh, "Well, he has you there, Zal."

This got Mikhail laughing and soon both tables laughed as the tension between the two groups melted away. "My name's Pasha'Raegel nar Rayya," the girl said with an accent that was impossible to place, yet strangely familiar to Mikhail.

Mikhail bowed slightly in his chair, "Mikhail Nikolayevich Rastorguev, very nice to meet you. These are my brothers: Hao Xu and Patrick Murphy."

Patrick extended a hand directly across the table to 'Zal', nearly knocking over the the empty bottle of poitín. The male Quarian looked at him for a moment like Patrick was a leper, but after a few seconds he reluctantly took it, "Zal'Eska nar Ghrigult."

Pleasantries were exchanged all round and slowly both groups began to relax little by little. Patrick and Mikhail plied question after question to the Quarians, who seemed a little suspicious and apprehensive at first, but gradually warmed up to the pair. As the questions grew in scope each Quarian began taking turns educating the inquisitive pair; save an especially quiet female Quarian in the black and silver Realk whose face was hidden behind the orchid colored face plate which set her further apart from the more brightly colored masks of the other Quarians.

"So...you're telling me all that all Quarian children have to have to go on this 'pilgrimage' before you're allowed to serve on a ship in your fleet?" Patrick asked, leaning in closer to the Quarian table.

"Yes, exactly!" the Quarian called Pasha said excitedly,"It's a right of passage for our people. We go on the pilgrimage to bring back useful materials and supplies for the fleet. It also ensures genetic diversity among our people."

"Ah...I can see how that would be a problem..."

Pasha continued, ignoring Mikhail's comment, "Zal here has completed his and most of the rest of us are just setting out."

"Stand fast," Patrick said, bringing up a hand,"You must be getting thirsty after all that talking. I'll get the next round. What'll you folks have? Do they have Dextro-Porters?"

"You are offering to buy us drinks?" Zal asked suspiciously. Adding, "All of us?"

"Sure, we're having a nice chat and I've got more than a few credits saved up for a rainy day," Patrick replied.

"Pat here is being modest," Hao spoke up, "He joined the service on a like,"

"A lark..." Patrick interrupted, turning a little red.

"On a lark," Hao said continuing, "His parents are wealthy bourgeoisie from Bekenstein."

"They cut me off when I joined the Marines..." Patrick added sheepishly.

"Right, but you took a fair portion of your inheritance when you left," Hao countered, pointing an accusing finger at Patrick. "Don't let him fool you, he's the type of guy who'd have joined the French Foreign Legion just for a piece of the action."

"What's a Foreign Legion?" Pasha asked.

"What is French?" Asked another Quarian.

"Doesn't matter," Mikhail said, coming to the aid of the blushing Patrick, "What it means is free drinks!"

Hao looked like he was about to say something, but a set of daggers from Patrick's eyes told him to drop it. Patrick ordered a round, with only the red-faced Hao opting out. The drinks came and the Quarians stood holding the bottles, each with a colored straw sticking out, in Patrick's direction.

The three humans also stood up, with Mikhail knocking his chair over to the amusement of all.

"Take it easy Misha!"

"Bah, it'll take more than that brown water or that _samogon_ to mess me up."

"Careful Ruskie...those are fighting fighting words," Patrick replied.

"If you're done..." Zal spoke up,"Blessed are the ancestors who kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season. And thanks to our new friend, Patrick'Murphy vas Budapest, Keelah se'lai."

The other Quarians echoed the toast and each took a sip. Patrick quickly took a drink so he wouldn't laugh at the sight of the helmeted aliens drinking beer from straws.

"That was nice, my turn" Mikhail said,"Let's see, Davai Za..." he fumbled for a moment, trying to think, then finished, "_Davai za zdorovye!_"

Hao, who had heard the worst stories about the Quarians growing up as a colonial boy on the rim, felt a little ashamed at some of the rumors he had accepted when he was studying engineering at school. Reluctantly, he voiced his thoughts.

To his surprise, the Quarians reacted with more fatalism than rage or indignation, "It's all right, Mr. Xu," one of the males said, "You have to get use to the racism pretty quick once you start your pilgrimage or most pilgrims would spend all their time fighting ignorant _bosh'tets_, instead of finding something of use to our people."

Zal added, bitterly, "I'm just glad I'll finally be heading back to the fleet and away from all these alien _det kaz_-"

"Keelah, Zal!" Pasha interrupted, "You're drinking the beer these aliens got you!" She gestured to Patrick and Mikhail, who more interested in figuring out what the aborted curseword meant.

Zal hung his head in acknowledgement, "You are right, but you know what I meant Pasha," he gave a slight nod over at Patrick, "I had a rough pilgrimage out in some of the human colonies. I believe if I had not met the three of you, I would have gone home sure that there were no decent people outside of the fleet."

"Don't forget Tali'Zorah's Hesh'alan ," The female Quarian in black and silver said in a soft, lilting voice. Even more quietly, she added, "You know, that handsome alien?"

"Her_ Hesh'la_?" quipped Zal, causing the other Quarians to snicker and if Patrick was a wagering man, he'd have bet that she was blushing even darker than her purplish visor. That name Tali'Zorah gave Hao a short pause, he was certain he had heard that name before, but not quite sure where. Before he could say something, Mikhail slammed down an empty beerstein.

"Heshalah? Detkaz? I can't understand half of what you people say!" A look of clarity dawned on Mikhail, "Wait a moment...you can understand me?"

"Of course," One of the Quarians said, "Mikhail'Rastorguev, we've been speaking with each other for a good half an hour."

"Well, yes...but earlier tonight we ran into a Volus and an Elcor and they said all they heard was gibberish."

The Quarian shrugged, "We leave the fleet with the best translation programs we can find."

"Ah..." Mikhail said. He was about to say something else, when the band started playing again. "Hey! Patrick! I think I know this song!"

"Aye! It's the Waxies' Dargle. I asked for it 'specially since I taught ya the words," Patrick replied, "Still remember the chorus? Here it comes!"

As the chorus came through, Patrick and Mikhail started banging their mugs, shouting, and alternating the lines. Hao and the Quarians laughed at the antics of the two merry drunks and even a trio of Salarians a few tables away joined in once they learned the lyrics. The Turians, however, remained unamused. Finally the band came to the last verse and chorus:

"What'll ya have?"

"I'll have a pint!"

"I'll have a pint with you, sir!"

Mikhail and Patrick joined in together for the finale, "And if one of us doesn't order soon, we'll be chucked out of the-"

"Would you be QUIET?" A flanged voice thundered out from the table next to them.

Patrick and Mikhail turned, dumbfounded to see an angry Turian with red-white face paint stand up and approach their table.

Pointing a taloned finger at the pair, he continued, "You talk too loud, you smoked those awful smelling cigarettes-" Patrick visibly stiffened,"you sing terribly, and you've kept the spirits-be-damned Suit-rats chattering for nearly an hour. I think it's time you and your friends leave."

Patrick was the first to respond, "First, gizzard-guts; they were cigars, not cigarettes. Secondly, you're in an Irish pub. What did you expect, quiet conversation about work? Hell, it's even called 'Donnybrook Fair' after one of _auld Erin_'s wildest celebrations."

He leaned back in his chair, a sign of contempt, "And there's no reason to insult these guys over here. You got a problem, you've got it with us. Or does the mighty Turian Empire only pick on non-council races?"

A white faced Turian stood up quickly, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know." Patrick said evenly, crossing his arms.

"Maybe he doesn't," Mikhail said, making a show of leaning over to Patrick, but loudly enough to be heard, "I've heard birds are usually far less intelligent than they look."

Another Turian stood and Hao started to become worried. Turians were famously stoic...but once conflict started, they went into it with a zealous professionalism. For all the trash-talking that went into Turian-Human relations, Hao understood that even in a simple bar fight, they were not to be taken lightly. Before he could think of something to ease the tension, the third Turian spoke up.

"What'd the little man say?" He added in a slow, measured voice,"By the Spirits, he's ugly even by human standards."

Mikhail leapt to his feet and crossed to the Turian's side of the table, "Don't have Russian language software? How's this?"

Hao jumped up, trying to insert himself between the three standing Turians and Mikhail before something happened. However he was too late and he groaned as he heard broken English pour from Mikhail's mouth.

To be honest, it wasn't terribly obscene by the standards of the day. What it lacked in pure filth, Mikhail made up for with embellishment and his own shaky grasp of Russian history.

"O, Turian devil and damned devil's kith and kin," Mikhail said, grinning wickedly as he recited the old Cossack's challenge with his own revisions, "You will not, you son of a bitch, make subjects of Terra's sons; we've no fear of your army, by land and by space we will battle with thee, fuck your mother."

He continued as Hao stepped between him and the offending Turian, "You Volus wetnurse, Palavenian catamite, and pyjack-fucker of the Citadel, an idiot before God, grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in a Hanar's dick. Kiss my arse!"

Patrick clapped and Mikhail seemed ready to continue when the Turian, mandibles twitching on his blue-painted face, reached out to grab Mikhail, but was stopped as Hao deftly brought a hand up in a block and pushed the Turian's arm away.

"I don't want that! Mikhail, sit your sorry ass down," Hao said, raising his palms in a gesture of pacification, "Look, you're right. We have been obnoxious. There's no need to lay a hand or cause a fight. We'll quiet it down and enjoy the rest of our evening,_ dong ma_?"

The Turians paused for a moment, evaluation the situation. They had the numbers and the humans were obviously drunk...but the speed that this human had blocked him made him think that a fight wouldn't be as one sided as he had hoped. He weighed his options and finally slumped his shoulders.

Not wanting to lose face, he snarled, "Fine, but you're leaving after your next round. And don't forget to take your suit-mongers with you," mandibles moving menacingly as he smiled, "Otherwise all the Asari or Salarians in the Citadel won't be able to stop us from showing you pyjaks what real violence looks like."

Hao nodded, quite content to ignore the threat and let the Turian have the last, face-saving word. A wave of relief swept over the restaurant patrons; mostly a few Salarians who had been sharp enough to notice the confrontation brewing behind them.

But then Red-White Face added, not quietly enough, "Damn humans...just because we let one of them play Spectre. They're not ready for the real galaxy."

Hao stiffened at the insult to Shepard, but before he could respond a flushing Patrick spoke up, "You've got that backward mate. The Asari and Salarians are there to keep you safe from us. And never forget it was a human Spectre and a human who stopped the Geth from wiping out the Council and seizing the Citadel.

"And I can't remember...who was leading the Geth?" Pressing on, he added with relish, "Ah yes, a Turian Spectre. And not just any...one of your best. So remember that next time you want to talk _shite_ about the savior of the Citadel or the Quarians; it was a human who stopped Saren's plan and a Quarian who put a bullet in his head."

_That's where the name Tali Zorah came from_, Hao realized. _She's the Quarian in the vids that always stands between Shepard and that Krogan_. His mind snapped back to the present, _Shit Patrick, you stupid bái chi! Now you've done it._

And Patrick had done it. Since Hao had moved between Blue Face and Mikhail, it left no one between Patrick and Red-White, the original instigator and apparent hot head of the group. The Turian grunted angrily and swiftly brought an underhanded fist into Patrick's gut.

"Oof!" The impact doubled Patrick over. But he recovered and shoved Red-White backwards into a table where a few Salarians were sitting. The Salarians barely moved out of the way to avoid having their drinks splattered all over them.

The rest of the belligerent parties reacted just as quickly. As soon as Hao saw Patrick take the Turian's punch, his own fist was on the move and connected with the side Blue-Face's head. Hao immediately regretted it when he was rewarded with sore knuckles and he cursed his stupidity for forgetting the Turian carapace. Mikhail reached out and grabbed White-Face, slamming him down against the table. The two Turians that had remained at their table scrambled to the aid of their friends.

Despite the pain in his hand Hao continued throwing punches, hoping to keep his opponent on the defensive as much as possible before the Turians brought their superior numbers to bear. Behind his Turian, Hao saw Patrick duck a blind jab from Red-White. Desperate to give his knuckles some relief Hao grabbed Blue-Face and brought a knee up into where a human groin would be. He was rewarded with a squeal unbecoming of a member of such a famed martial race.

A scream from Pasha caused Hao to turn straight into an empty bottle of beer an oncoming coming green-painted Turian smashed against Hao's head; stars appeared and he collapsed against the table. He struggled to right himself, knocking over a few empty bottles, but was grabbed by the collar and shoulder by the remaining two Turians, who pulled him to his feet. They held him up while Blue-Face slowly shook himself off and moved over to where Hao was pinned. Hao gave a shout which caused Mikhail to look up.

Mikhail saw Hao's predicament and with an effort he heaved his Turian off the table and directly into the three Turians surrounding Hao. With a triumphant "_Urra_!" he charged straight at the Turians. A second later his look of triumph turned to surprise as he slipped on a puddle of dextro-beer from a bottle the Turians had knocked over. He tried to maintain his balance, but his inebriated state worked against him and he came down hard onto the smooth floor.

One of the Turians-Mikhail couldn't see their faces from the floor-recovered quickly enough to give Mikhail a powerful kick to the ribs. This time, Mikhail's inebriation worked to his advantage, dulling the pain that would have otherwise stunned him. Instead, he latched onto the Turian's foot and pulled him down to the floor with him.

The other patrons of the pub backed away in terror at the fight that had broken out around them. A few ladies screamed as Patrick and Red-White struggled, pushing each other further away from their comrades and into the crowd of onlookers. The poor Quarians were held hostage as Mikhail and Hao fought a desperate holding action with the four remaining Turians, blocking the Quarians' only way out of the corner. In desperation, the male Quarians stood up and took a defensive position in front of the females.

"Shouldn't we do something Zal?" Pasha asked.

Zal shook his head, "You know how things are Pasha. Best case scenario C-Sec locks us into a cell for vagrancy and disturbing the peace. Worst case, someone gets hurt and they won't let us into a med center."

"But they're going to get torn apart!"

"Pasha, I like them. They're nice guys...for aliens," Hal paused, adding emphasis to his next words, "But we can't get involved."

Pasha tilted her head, preparing to argue the point; but one of the other Quarian girls place a gentle hand on her shoulder. Pasha bit her lip inside her mask and turned away; flinching from the sight of a Turian talon drawing blood from Mikhail's forehead.

* * *

Ray Kelly would have gladly given his other leg to have a free arm to wipe his brow. Instead, tossed his head back to try and get some of the sweat out of his eyes. He was enjoying the set, but his damn omni-tool kept beeping. He tried to ignore it, but the beep was starting to throw him off beat. Exasperated, he peeked over at Augusté, whose omni-tool was also flashing. Augusté nodded upstairs and Kelly could see some commotion up there; though he couldn't hear the shouting over the sound of his violin. He sighed, they'd probably have to end the set early and check out whatever was giving Cho-Hee conniptions.

A series of screams finally broke through the din of the band. Kelly turned just in time to spot something from the second level crash into a table; shattering glass, sending drinks and food flying, and causing dozens of heads to snap towards the upper-balcony where Patrick was leaning to catch his labored breathing. After panting a few times, Patrick stood up straight and disappeared; moving to return to reinforce his friends.

"What in the bloody hell, Augie?" Kelly asked.

"Aleia must have put them next to the Turians. Ah,_ ça pute_..." Augusté grumbled.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kelly struggled not to laugh, "All right, I'll talk to Aleia about it when she comes in tomorrow for her shift. Right now, we've got to deal with them." He didn't bother to ask who 'they' were. Instead, he reached down by his violin box and pulled up a knotted walking-stick with an ugly knob at the end.

Quickly, he turned professional and began giving orders, "Take my shillelagh and run up the stairs and try to calm the boys down," Kelly turned to Kaltrienia, "You keep folks calm down here and make sure no one goes up and tries to join in the affray. Once I've cleared the way down here I'll take the damn elevator, I'll help Augie sort things out. Understood?"

They both nodded as Augusté grimly took the weapon he was offered and leapt from the stage, making his way up the stairs.

"Hurry up, you bugger! Before the wreck the bar upstairs!" Kelly could see some discomfort in Kaltrienia's eye as she stared after Augusté, so he added with a wink, "And try not to crack any skulls too hard-I'll need that stick to help with me limp."

To Augusté's surprise, the stairway wasn't the choking point; he did have to elbow his way past a few Salarians and Asari, but most gave way when they saw the grim determination and large stick he was carrying. Instead, he found himself having to elbow his way towards the action where a crowd of gawkers looked on.

"Smugly: I told you the humans wouldn't be able to hold their own," An Elcor said to a Hanar floating next to it.

"This one believes that the humans have already demonstrated resiliency by lasting this long against superior numbers and have evened the odds by removing one of the Turians with the balcony," The Hanar pulsated and glowed, continuing, "If the other is so confident, this one humbly suggests that they increase the wager."

"Indignantly: You are only willing to make that bet now that another human has come to their aid."

"I've come to no one's aid. This fight ends now. Go back to your seats and mind your drinks," Augusté said. When no one paid him any mind he angrily added,"Move!" And pushed his way past between the Elcor and Hanar.

A chaotic site greeted Augusté when he pushed through the crowd: in the far back, he saw a group of Quarians using an overturned table as a shield. To their front, the short, ugly man he had served drinks to earlier was throttling a white-painted Turian; while another blue-faced one attempted to pull him off. A few feet away, the _Chinois_ was grappling with a Turian against the wall. The human had his back to the wall and was perilously close to dragging down the blue-white flag of Connaught; its human arm clasping a sword merged with half a body of a screaming black eagle. A human yelp of pain and a shudder from another overturned table told Augusté there was another pair wrestling on the floor hidden from view.

That accounted for three humans and at least four Turians. Before he intervened, Augusté's head swiveled to analyze the situation. When he was sure that no unwelcome surprises awaited him, he marched forward and made his presence known.

"That's enough!" Augusté said, batting the table aside with the gnarled end of the shillelagh. "I said, enough! Get off him!" He reached down, prying Patrick and his Turian apart with the tool.

It took a little effort, but he finally succeeded in pulling the two combatants apart and they stopped clawing at each other. "All right now," He said, turning to the rest. Before he could continue, the seat of a barstool collided with a sickening 'thunk' against his face; Blue-Face had let go of Mikhail and turned fight off the intruding human. Augusté's head snapped back and he could feel blood gush from his broken nose as he staggered backwards.

The Turian brought the stool crashing down towards Augusté's head. Reflexively, he brought the shillelagh up and braced it with both hands, catching the Turian's follow through. Grunting, he struggled as Blue-Face tried to put his weight behind the stool. Augusté's guard began to give a little and Blue-Face sneered at his opponent's fatigue. Augusté saw the sneer and made his move; he dropped to one knee and leaned forward, allowing the Turian's attack to throw him off balance. The Turian came down hard onto the ground with his stool out in front of him. As soon as the turn hit the ground, Augusté cracked the shillelagh firmly against the Turian's head. The Turian swore, dropping the stool and covering his head with his hands. Vindictively, the Frenchman gave another hard tap and the curses turned to moans.

Shaking himself off, he stood up and wiped a bit of blood from his mouth. His fingers brushed the tip of his nose and he winced at the jolt of pain that shot through him. Unenthusiastically he strode over to the flag of Connaught and roughly pulled the Turian off Hao, brandishing the shillelagh menacingly in case this one also failed to realize that the fight was over. By the time he turned to Mikhail and the final Turian, Mikhail had gotten the message and had relinquished his grip on his foe who lay gasping on the ground.

An Irish voice behind him spoke, "Well, ya handled yerself and these gobshites fairly well, Augie."

Augusté turned around to face Kelly, a nasty bruise already forming across where his nose had been broken. Kelly said in mock horror, "Christ, I take that back. Those bastards did a number on ye."

Augusté replied, voice stuffy because of his nose, "Took your time...the one on the ground there," He pointed at Blue-Face, who was still lying down moaning, "Surprised me with a barstool while I was taking care of some of the others. I think he broke my nose."

"Damn right he did lad," Kelly said, with a note of concern, "Here, hold still; I'll set that straight."

Without waiting for a response, Kelly hobbled over to Augusté, grabbed his nose and pulled it straight. Augusté howled in pain and cursed at Kelly, who simply said, "Aw, quit your whining, it's over now.

"Enough of that nonsense. Somebody start talking; what the bloody hell happened to my pub!"

"Excuse me, sir," A quiet voice coming from behind the Quarian men said. "We saw what happened, but I think these aliens could use some medical attention."

Kelly looked from the black-suited female to the seven fight participants; she was right. Of the four Turians present: two were in relatively good shape, looking sullen and shamed. One was still catching his breath, while the short human next to him had a stupid grin on his face made all the more ferocious by the bloody gash across his forehead that was spilling down his face. The Turian lying on the ground hadn't moved and he was sure that the one downstairs was still out of commission. Over by the Connaught flag, one of the humans had set a stool right and was tending to his friend, who was babbling and waving his hands incoherently.

"You, boyo!" Kelly said to the human by the flag, "What's yer name?"

"Murphy sir, Patrick."

"Christ son, yer couldn't have named ye more 'irish' if they'd called you 'Corned Beef McGuinness'. Let me guess, a Yanker?" Kelly laughed and put on his thickest accent, "Bah, don't answer that. You look all right; any major injuries?"

"No sir," Patrick replied.

"Good, then I want you to stick behind and explain to me what happened while yer mates go to an aid center," Kelly explained, turning to the two Turians who appeared unscathed, "That goes for one of you-what's your name?" He said, gesturing to the green-painted one.

"Basilus Duraken," the Turian said quietly.

"Fine Basil, ye'll stay behind and explain yer side of the story," Turning to Augusté, Kelly said, "You good to get the boys to the aid station down the way?"

"Yes, I'm fine; it's just my nose."

"Right, then give me back my walking stick," Kelly said as he took the shillelagh from Augusté. Quickly he took a Stinger pistol from inside his vest and slid it into Augusté's hand, "Just to keep things calm. I've got it set to non-lethal, but it'll still pack a punch."

Augusté nodded, quietly sliding the large pistol into his pocket and untucking his shirt to hide its protruding grip. He rounded up the infirm and marched them all away. Kelly had Basilus and Patrick set the tables and stools upright while Cho Hee and one of the other waitresses began to clean up the mess. Slowly the crowd melted away and the pub began to empty once it was clear the action was over and there wasn't going to be any more music or fighting.

Kelly listened patiently to the Quarians, hushing Basilus's objections, as they laid the blame squarely at the Turians' feet. He allowed Basilus to speak, then he listened to Patrick; who spoke quickly, mainly sticking to the Quarian's version of events. Patrick did acknowledge that the humans had been a little loud, but the one thing that Kelly heard in all three stories was that one of the Turians threw the first punch. He'd heard enough.

"All right, as I see it; this is a pub-it's supposed to be loud and noisy. Even if someone is particularly obnoxious, no man or alien the right to bash in another's face," Kelly said, looking directly at Basilus. "You have a problem with someone, get one of your servers' attention-you don't take matter into yer own hands. That's anarchy and I'll have none of that in my pub.

"So, I'll be adding most of the damage done here against you and yer friends' tab," He turned to Patrick and jabbed a finger in his face, "But you'll be paying the cost for that table downstairs; no reason to throw someone off a roof in a bar fight."

Patrick blushed a little, but was grateful at how easily he was getting off. _Goes to show,_ he thought,_ treat people like people and they'll get your back_. He nodded and accepted Kelly's verdict. Basilus, however was livid.

"You can't do that," He said shaking, "You can't seriously take the word of some filthy suit-rats over mine? Even the human admits we were provoked."

"Can and...done," Kelly said, imputing the command on his omni-tool, "He only admitted to being noisy-I already said that isn't worth starting a fight," He paused looking over at the Quarians, "And their word is as good as yours because they paid for their drinks and minded their own business-something you could stand to learn to do." With that, he turned to address Patrick again, but Basilus wasn't done.

"Oh, no you can't!" The Turian said menacingly, "I saw that piece you handed your pal and I know that it's against the new C-Sec regulations. I've got a brother who works for security," He paused and grinned savagely, "I'm sure he'd love to hear about it."

If he was looking for a reaction of fear or concern from Kelly, he was sorely disappointed-Kelly threw his head back and laughed heartily.

"Boy, you must not know who I am," Kelly said once he has stopped laughing, "I'm the bastard who sat in that window over there taking pot shots at looters and any Geth who got lost during the Battle of the Citadel."

He continued, relishing the look of confusion on Basilus's face, "I'm also the man who provides the Executor with his favorite Turian Brandy every month. And you think you'll run me in, boyo? I'd like to see you try."

Before Basilus could respond, Kelly brandished his walking stick, "Now get out of my pub, ye wingless turd. And don't let me catch you or any of your friends back here! OUT!"

Basilus beat a hasty and undignified retreat, running straight through a Hanar as he raced down the stairs. Patrick laughed, then asked, "Is any of that true?"

"Hmm?" Kelly thought for a moment,"Well, the part about the Battle of the Citadel was-local merchants are still giving me discounts for that one. As for the brandy? No; Pallin's too upright for that; I send the bottle to one of his assistants and C-Sec doesn't bother me too much." He smiled at Patrick and the Quarians, "But you didn't hear that from me, got it?

"All right children," He said to the Quarians, "Thanks for your time and helping me sort it out. We're closing up now, I think, so it's probably best you head on back home."

Patrick bid farewell to his new Quarian friends, exchanging contact info and promising to keep in touch. To his surprise, he realized he would try to keep in touch. Pasha and Zal both made him promise to forward their contact information to Mikhail and Patrick assured them that he would. Finally, they finished their goodbyes and Patrick started to head towards the stairs, but Kelly stopped him.

"So if I heard you right, you are celebrating the end of your service in the Marines, Pat?" He asked.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Kelly."

"Just call me Ray," Ray replied, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder, "So what prospects do you have lined up for yourself now?"

"I don't having anything at the moment," Patrick paused for a moment, before deciding to give an honest answer. _Mr. Kell-Ray_, he corrected himself,_ seems a trustworthy sort_. "I was thinking of heading to Omega or somewhere and trying to join a private security firm like the Blue Suns. I liked the military life, but now that the Eden Prime War is winding down, it's becoming garrison duties and I can't stand it. I want more action."

Ray practically started dancing when he heard this; this young man seemed like an answer to a prayer," Aw, no lad; you don't want to do that. Blue Suns and others on Omega are nothing more than glorified pirates. I should know, I was there when Blue Suns was founded," He tapped his stump.

Patrick's eyes grew wide, "You were a merc?"

"I was a lot of things lad," Ray said smiling, "But, let's talk about your future. You look like a clever lad who can handle himself in a tough situation. And I know you're looking out for humanity's interests. I may have a job opportunity for you."

"Oh? Tending a bar? I might drink up all the profits old man."

Ray laughed, liking the young man more and more, "No, it's more interesting and a lot more dangerous. I'll let my son Augie fill you in when he get's back-but you've heard about those two colonies that disappeared?"

"Yeah, slaver raid or something," Patrick said tilting his head, "No survivors."

"Not no survivors," Ray said quietly, "No one. Not a single body. Couldn't have been slavers; they aren't that thorough. This has to be supported by a government and its military...and which government has cause to target human colonies?"

Patrick thought for a moment, "You think the Batarians? The Hegemony has no love for us, but you sure it wasn't the Geth?"

Ray shook his head, "Even the Geth leave the bodies behind-or at least those damn dragon's teeth. Has to be the Batarians. And if that's the case and the Alliance won't get of their asses, someone's got to make sure the colonies have some way to defend themselves. That's where we're coming in."

He waited for a word from Patrick, but when none came, he continued, "I've got the connections, we've got the money; I just need some trustworthy folks to help us out. So are you in son?"

* * *

Chi bao le cheng de: bragging beyond ability, have no shame.

Seonbae: Korean Honorific, as far as I can tell I'm using it correctly.

Oppa: Korean, Literally means "Older Brother," but often used by females to older male friend that is near their own age-as well as between couples.

Mei-Mei: Chinese, little sister.

Yang guizi: Chinese, Foreign Devils

Qu nide: F*ck off.

Конь о четырёх нога́х, да и тот спотыка́ется: Kon' o chetyryokh nogakh, da i tot spotykaetsya-A horse has four legs, but still stumbles. Moral: Even most experienced (or most capable) people make mistakes sometimes.

Sad to say this-I'm going to have Mikhail say "brother" as since the fall the Soviet Union, "Tovarisch" or "Comrade" has become a little passé...at least here in Kazakhstan, it's more common to just hear "Drook" (Friend) or "Brat" (Brother). Never thought I'd be sad to see communism fall...

Samogon: Russian-Moonshine

Davai Za-Basically a toast, or "Let's drink to" "Let's Go for", zdorovye-"your health"

Dong ma: Understand?

* * *

I want to thank you all for bearing with me and my first attempt at writing. I'm sorry it took so long for anyone interested in where it was going. I'd like to give a big shout out to SneakyFox, Khelish, Bahoogasmif, Brains, and Frillycakes for the encouragement and advice. I tried to catch most of the grammar mistakes-but if I missed some please let me know. I hope you enjoyed it-I've never really written an action scene before and it ended up quite a bit longer than I expected.

For any of you who like reading other ME stories...there's a lot of OCs in this one, but one is lovingly and respectfully borrowed (with permission) from another author's work. Ye'll get a cookie if you figure it out.

There's also a couple of shout-outs to Irish music-namely "The Waxie's Dargle," "The Rocky Road to Dublin," and "Take My Hand." Look them up on youtube. They are lovely songs.

Lastly, I want to thank guys like Tairis Deamhan, Colossus Problematic, and VenomRed-your stories helped me get more seriously into ME and I love your work.


End file.
